A Stubborn Desire
by ouxes
Summary: Some typical Johnlock I guess; John has become progressively more anxious about his growing feelings for Sherlock, and Sherlock soon feels strongly in return yet attempts to suppress it. Will the obstinate detective give in to desire? Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

'You haven't been sleeping,' Sherlock noted absently, glancing up from where he lay on the sofa.

'No, I haven't,' John responded wearily, sitting down in the armchair and opening his laptop on his knees.

'You've been anxious,' Sherlock continued. 'Something's on your mind, judging by the fact that your cuticles have been bitten down almost to the point of bleeding and your hands were trembling so much this morning there are several cuts on your chin, so many cuts that you eventually gave up shaving as a bad job seeing as the stubble at your jawline remains intact –'

'Please, can we skip the psychoanalysis this morning?' said John, with exasperation. 'I'm not in the mood.'

'You never are, but that's not the point. What's the matter?'

John looked up in surprise to see Sherlock eyeing him beadily.

'When have you ever cared about how I'm feeling?' asked John, not thinking about his blunt choice of words.

'I have always cared about you, John,' Sherlock reprimanded mildly. 'Is it so uncharacteristic of me to ask what it is that's bothering you?'

'Er – yes, as a matter of fact, it is.'

'Let's mix things up a bit then, shall we? Though, you're not going to tell me anyway, that much is obvious by the reserved bearing of your shoulders and that poignant reluctance in your eyes. My God, John, your face is like an open book.'

'Okay, that's my cue to leave,' said John irately, and he made to get up from the chair.

'No, no, please sit, I'll stop.'

Sherlock rested his head back on the cushion and closed his eyes until he sunk into quiet thought. He had lain like that for only a moment when a low buzz announced an incoming call from where his mobile phone lay vibrating slowly across the tabletop. John's gaze lifted from the laptop screen to watch its progress before glancing over at where Sherlock lay.

'Silence that thing for me, John,' he requested wearily.

John obeyed mutely, taking in the name _Lestrade_ before answering the call.

'Hello? No, it's Doctor Watson. Yes. Oh – okay, yep, yes I can tell him. Okay, we'll be there in twenty.'

'Please tell me this will be worth the interruption of my musings,' sighed Sherlock, opening his eyes to peer inquiringly at John.

'Suicide under strange circumstances, as it appears: gunman shot dead in a dark room full of people – Lestrade didn't give any details.'

'Typical,' tutted Sherlock petulantly. 'He wants to make me interested in the mystery.'

John frowned.

'Well, aren't you?'

'Not yet.' Sherlock sat up suddenly and put his book down. 'But I suppose we shall have to see if I will be. Come along, then, this room is getting progressively duller by the hour.'

'Anyone would have thought this was your idea,' John muttered, though Sherlock pretended not to hear as they donned their coats to face the bitter morning.


	2. Chapter 2

The case was enough to occupy Sherlock's agitated mind. A man whose name was unknown seemed a plausible suspect however Sherlock had found, as the case progressed, that he was often distracted by the presence of John. On normal occasions, John would sit in the room while he was working or even mindlessly talk at him and Sherlock would not give him more than another thought; now, however, it seemed things had changed. Therefore, to keep his mind focussed on being properly distracted, he had sent John off to uncover the name of the obvious suspect. Sherlock knew, of course, that there were more pressing things than knowing the man's name, he merely wanted John out of the house – until he returned at nine o'clock in the evening, that is.

'Sherlock,' said John, unable to fight the grin of triumph tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Sherlock, as expected, did not look up from his computer screen and his hands remained clasped underneath his chin. The blue-white light emanating from the screen washed his face in a somewhat sickly pallor, though John couldn't help but notice how it threw the contours of his cheekbones into complimenting definition.

'Sherlock,' John repeated. 'I've found out his name, and it was _right under our noses_!'

'Oh yes?' inquired Sherlock, his sharp eyes flicking to John's ecstatic face.

John's voice trembled slightly with excitement as he announced, 'His name is Darling, Justin Darling, and the woman who lives with him who we _thought_ was his lover is in fact only his attendant – she was merely addressing him by his last name.'

Sherlock's expression remained completely passive as the bombshell of information dissipated into silence. John's smile flickered slightly as the possibility that Sherlock had figured this out already occurred to him – in fact, of _course_ Sherlock knew this, he probably knew it days ago and just didn't bother to tell him. Why would he bother to tell him? Come to think of it, he was probably thinking John a moron for taking so long. Oh how depressingly predictable this had all become. Moments ticked by as the two stared as though fixated at one another, John waiting for something to happen, Sherlock immersed in his whirring thoughts that had promptly gone into overdrive.

Suddenly, he got to his feet, pushing the chair roughly aside, and began pacing furiously up and down the length of the cluttered room.

'Sherlock –,' John began, but Sherlock's intermittent muttering silenced him.

'Of course,' Sherlock murmured to himself. 'Of course, it all makes sense, how didn't I see it before? Edith has been calling him Darling for weeks merely as a polite title for her employer. If the man is Justin Darling then he couldn't have been at the crime scene on Tuesday night due to the fact that his name was enlisted in a reserved restaurant booking which he attended from seven forty pm until ten sharp after which he returned to his guest's apartment for wine – no, his _lover's_ apartment, a lover who had just returned from the Canary Islands but three days ago yet obviously Mister Darling had not cared to see her –'

'Yes, but how do you –'

'Because you and I both know he isn't interested in her, not really,' Sherlock continued, firing off thoughts as they came into his head. 'If he was he would have seen her earlier or even picked her up from the airport, and he only ate lightly and skipped dessert –'

'He could be on a diet,' John suggested dryly.

'No, he was in a hurry, he didn't want to be there because clearly he's only in the relationship for sex so he was quick to finish the meal so that they could return to her apartment; that and he is clearly more in love with his job than with any woman. But then why would he call the other woman as often as he does?'

'Which other –?'

'You know what I'm talking about, the woman that he so abhors yet keeps on the bell despite his legitimate lover's stereotypical physical appeal –'

'Sherlock, stop – just stop it!' John burst out suddenly, and Sherlock immediately stopped pacing.

Under Sherlock's half-sharp half-inquisitive gaze, John's frustration fizzled into embarrassment and that familiar feeling of inadequacy crept into the edges of his mind; however, his face was set as he looked resolutely up at his partner.

'You know you have to talk me through these things,' John continued, in a more measured tone. 'I – I can't keep following when you're sprinting off along a – _mind tangent_, you're too fast for me.'

'"Mind tangent"?' Sherlock repeated, and his eyebrows raised as he flashed a smirk at the term. He resumed his pacing. 'Apologies, John,' he said indifferently. 'I am afraid, as you are well aware, that my thoughts have a habit of running away with me.'

John sighed and fell back into the squashy armchair.

'I know,' he said softly, and something in his voice made Sherlock's ears prick.

The detective's gait slowed as he looked at John who appeared especially small and somehow depleted in the armchair, dejection written all over his face. Dejection why? Dejection from his friend's dismissal of his hard-won information, for the lack of praise or acknowledgement – the lack of appreciation. For some reason, some slightly alarming reason, Sherlock found himself regretting his attitude and wishing he had at least had the heart to clap John on the shoulder and say "well done". Why was it always John that could get under his skin so? It was always John that could make him feel regret, and self-directed anger and disappointment. It was always John that could make him believe it was worth it, that completing these cases no matter how seemingly trivial or pointless was worth all the effort just to be able to work by his side, as a comrade, a partner, even as a friend.

'It's always John,' he whispered aloud.

'What?'

Reality suddenly pinged into high-definition and Sherlock humbled himself to sit opposite John by the fire. His back was erect and trepidation rippled between them. John frowned slightly.

'I am sorry,' said Sherlock boldly, though it was a little too forced. 'That was very clever deduction on your part, and I thank you for your contribution.'

John's eyes narrowed with suspicion.

'Are you mocking me?' he asked brusquely.

Sherlock bit back a sigh of exasperation and got to his feet again, feeling more agitated due to his foolishness than before. John shook his head to dismiss his strange behaviour as being ordinary and, too, got up.

'Tea?' he asked.

'Please,' nodded Sherlock.


	3. Chapter 3

They had come so close and yet closer to danger. The dull throbbing in his head woke Sherlock with a befuddled start. He sat up straight with a gasp, a pale pillar in a mess of sheets, before falling back onto the pillows clutching his aching skull. One glance at the familiar bedroom told him he was safe and, despite the distracting pain in his head, a surge of affection towards John shocked itself into existence as being almost as dominant. Of course he was safe – dear John would have made sure of that.

'John!' he called, but his voice was husky and low.

He cleared his throat to repeat the call but the door opened and he stood there, looking like a saviour in his paisley pyjamas, and Sherlock's anxiety was immediately soothed.

'How do you feel?' John asked, moving over to the bedside and bringing his face down close to the detective's.

Sherlock reacted by backing away in surprise and the two stared at each other for a moment until John explained, somewhat awkwardly, 'I'm examining your head – where you hit it, you know.'

'Oh, right, of course.'

John's gentle fingertips probed lightly over Sherlock's forehead where the pain was at its most tender, and discomfort of a different kind rose like heat up Sherlock's chest and neck. He felt very exposed under John's close watch – he found he did not know where to look. If he were to look at John's face, or at his eyes, perhaps John would be able to see the suppression hidden away inside his own gaze. John had never been good at observation, but then again he was learned in the more vague areas of friendship and _feelings_, areas in which Sherlock, though he deplored the matter, was a bona fide novice. There was no point in denying it.

'Cleaned up fine,' said John smartly, and Sherlock was recalled from his thought-train.

John stepped back and looked down at where Sherlock lay, naked and pale, in a mess of sheets. The memory of the previous night ran through his mind: Sherlock, bleeding and unconscious, vulnerable and alone, rescued by John and carried to the safety of their flat where he was stripped and put to bed to have his wounds mended. The doctor saw Sherlock now, alert and furtive, with a conflicted air. The night had been one of somnambulate peace in which Sherlock put himself entirely into John's care and John had seized the opportunity to show love to the man who had always rejected it; now, however, he was put in his place by Sherlock's sharp demeanour.

'What happened?' Sherlock asked, sitting up again but slower this time.

'Blow to the head,' John replied simply. 'You ought to be a little more careful, you know, or perhaps you could have _let me in_.'

'Perhaps,' said Sherlock vaguely.

'Coffee?'

'Yes, thank you.'

'No, you stay here,' said John quickly, putting his palms on Sherlock's chest as the man began to rise from the bed. 'You ought to rest a little longer, I'll bring it to you.'

Sherlock stared at John's concerned face before dropping his gaze to where John's hands were pressed to his skin. Goosepimples bloomed up his torso, unnoticed by John who promptly left the room but kept the door open.

Despite feeling barely hindered by the pain in his forehead, Sherlock decided, on a whim, to obey John's request and remain in bed. He sank back into the warm sheets and stared at the ceiling, lost in his own internal musings. His skin burned where John's touch had left as though the heat of him lingered there. This had gone too far, he had fallen too deeply into this strange world of affections in which he was a wayward stranger; something had to be done.

Sherlock leapt out of bed and feverishly began to dress. The one way he knew to avoid confronting these messy thoughts was to get rid of them: from hereon in, John had to remain at a distance.

He strode out to get his coat.

'Hey – your coffee –'

'Not now, John,' Sherlock dismissed. 'I have business to attend to.'

'What? What business?'

John's confused face appeared around the doorway to see Sherlock buttoning up his black shirt. John hesitated for a moment, his eyes drawn in to the hypnotic motion of Sherlock's slender fingers threading the buttons to conceal the contours of his torso.

'Business,' Sherlock replied, as though from a long way off.

'Hm?' John shook his head slightly. 'Do – ah – do you want me to come?'

'Not this time.' Sherlock donned his coat and grabbed his scarf from the hanger. 'Oh, and do pick up some milk while I'm gone, we're almost out.'

'I – I know. Wait, where are you going?'

But Sherlock was already sweeping across the room and out the door, leaving only a flash of his clear-blue gaze to penetrate John's bamboozled mind as the doctor stood alone in the doorway, a cup of coffee in each hand, watching his friend disappear down the staircase with an irrational surge of reluctance.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock sat peering into his microscope, totally absorbed in his muttered thoughts, purposefully ignoring the stream of noise issuing from John's mouth where he stood by the doorway. The doctor's pitch grew louder and more irritable but the detective refused to acknowledge the meaning behind his speech – he had to block it out. It had been days since he had had a proper conversation with John and, if he were to be honest with himself, Sherlock was not feeling as he had anticipated: the longing had not abated, the desire had not lessened. It may even have grown more prominent than before. John was still talking at him but he refused to listen. He refused. He blocked it out. He closed his ears. He muttered over it. He –

'Sherlock, shut up and look at me!' John commanded loudly, and this time his anger did not abate into weakness.

Sherlock stopped muttering immediately at the command and shifted his gaze slowly up to look at John's confused and hurt expression. He knew what was coming, he knew exactly what John was going to say; in fact, he had been waiting for it and was slightly surprised that it had taken this long. Though, of course, this _was_ John he was dealing with, the one who had always been too submissive to take action into his own hands. Here and now, however, it appeared the man had been pushed to his limit; for some reason, the thought brought a vicious kind of pleasure to Sherlock's mind.

John's chest was rising and falling rapidly in his heated frustration and his gaze flicked desperately between Sherlock's two guarded eyes.

'What do you want, John?' he asked quietly.

'I want you to tell me what the bloody hell is going on! You're always out, you've stopped eating completely and as far as I know you're not even sleeping, you won't talk to me let alone _look_ at me and it seems you've been working on the case without letting me help. Has something happened or – or have I done something –?'

'Oh, typical John,' smirked Sherlock humourlessly. 'Always taking it upon yourself, assuming a fault on your part because there is no way your Sherlock could be flawed. Isn't that right?'

'Why are you doing this?' sighed John in exasperation, leaning against the doorframe.

'I am not perfect,' Sherlock stated viciously, and he got up to grab John's upper arms in a strong grip. Their faces were inches apart, John's suddenly startled and Sherlock's furious. 'I am far from perfect and I – _cannot_ compete with you, John, I can't.'

'Compete – _what_ are you on about?' John asked in alarm, as Sherlock's grip released and he began pacing agitatedly up and down the room.

'I have tried distancing myself from you,' Sherlock muttered. 'I have tried to focus on this case, to block you from my mind but – but I can't do it!'

His voice shook slightly with intensity. John could only watch, completely dumbfounded.

'I wanted to do the right thing and block you out in order to straighten my mind but no, of course it couldn't be so easy. In fact, your presence in my life has become as addictive – and poisonous – as the cigarettes I so desperately crave.'

John felt as though Sherlock had turned around and punched him in the gut. The words wounded him with a pain that felt almost physical, and the wish for it to stop flooded his mind. John licked his dry lips and clasped his hands together.

'Why?' he asked, his tone betraying nothing of his emotion though he knew Sherlock would see through it straight away.

'Because I have never encountered anything like you before, John,' said Sherlock, and now it was his turn to become short of breath. 'I have tried to understand – to figure out why it is that you do this to me, or how, but I – I have failed. I do not understand.'

And then, it all made sense. Clarity smoothed John's mind and he stared at Sherlock's pained expression in astonishment. Everything came together as he had spoken those last four words, because what was the one thing the genius consulting detective had never been able to grasp? What was it that had eluded his brilliant mind for his entire life? What had he never been able to conceive of?

'You're in love with me,' said John in disbelief.

Sherlock froze and looked at John's slightly smiling face for what seemed like a very long time. He allowed the words to sink in and analysed them over and over, probed the meanings and attempted to fit them into his confusion to make sense of it all. He looked at John, and John looked at him, and somehow, strangely, impossibly, the explanation seemed to click.

'Of course.' John laughed softly. '_I_ have loved you for – well, for a while now.'

'I never saw,' Sherlock murmured, staring at John as though he had never seen something so strange or so wondrous before. 'I never _observed_ this in you. You evaded me.'

'I think you just didn't know what to look for,' said John, and his hint of unwarranted triumph pricked indignation in the detective's pride.

'No,' said Sherlock curiously. 'No, I didn't.'

John's glee was hampered slightly by the Sherlock's uncharacteristic behaviour. He was giving in too easily.

'What are you thinking about?' John asked, somewhat cautiously.

'Many things,' Sherlock replied, and his ambiguity ruffled John's temper.

The detective stared at the floor to the left of John's feet, deeply consumed by this new daunting development. John waited patiently, watching Sherlock's mental progress as he attempted to right the situation in his head. Love. _Love_. Affection, devotion, care, obsession, longing, joy, fear, anxiety, all of this was impossible, too big, too heavy, too _wrong_ for Sherlock to grant pardon. He had known for a long time that he had to get rid of it but as he looked up at John's concerned face, the desire to throw caution to the wind threatened to overwhelm his better judgement. He both wanted to hit and to kiss the doctor at the same time.

'Well.' Sherlock cleared his throat. 'Where does that leave us?'

'I don't know,' shrugged John, but the tenderness in his voice shone through the indifferent gesture.

'I'm – going out,' said Sherlock.

John merely nodded, understanding the detective's need for solitude.

'Will you be here when I get back?' Sherlock asked, failing at nonchalance.

'Yes.' John smiled. 'Yes, I'll be here.'

'Good. I won't be long.'


	5. Chapter 5

The door slammed shut behind Sherlock and he bounded up the stairs into the living room. John looked up from his laptop to frown inquiringly at Sherlock's buoyancy. In doing so, he couldn't help but notice how the detective's eyes danced with excitement and that his cheeks were still slightly pink from the cold. Water droplets clung to the strands of his hair and his eyelashes – for some reason, the sight made John feel slightly flustered.

'I have been thinking about what you said, John, and you are a genius!' Sherlock announced.

He hitched himself up to perch on the balls of his feet on the armchair. Excitement radiated from his very being as though John had given him the answer to some riddling case; but, now that John thought, that was probably how Sherlock viewed this whole situation. In fact, it was probably how Sherlock viewed everything: as a problem to be solved, a mystery to be unravelled, a case to be cleared. His own emotions, it seemed, had been treated just so. John had given him the answer that had eluded him due to his own limitations.

John watched Sherlock as though he was watching a child who had finally figured out another one of life's little mysteries – how aeroplanes flew or why the sun sets in the west. Another facet of Sherlock's mind had been revealed to him – John had been the one to show him – and Sherlock only loved him all the more for it. That simple little man he had lived with for so long had come out on top as being full of lessons, of wisdom, of teachings about that ambiguous realm of emotions which had previously seemed so dull; now, however, it was like a labyrinth of quirks that Sherlock thirsted to unravel.

'How did you not know?' asked John, in immodest disbelief. 'How can you not know how _love_ feels?'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and John inclined his head in acceptance.

'Right,' he amended. 'Forgot who I was talking to.'

'Although, I do have to apologise,' allowed Sherlock. 'I had been avoiding you the past few days in the hope that those distracting _feelings_ would go away but, well, now I have decided to embrace them.'

'You have?'

'Indeed. I am willing to explore this new terrain.'

John nodded, still quite confused. The confusion quickly dissolved into suspicion.

'The case going badly, then?' he guessed.

'Solved, in fact.'

'Ah. So, this is your new distraction.'

'Don't be offended, I'm not pursuing you out of boredom,' dismissed Sherlock, though John experienced a thrill of pleasure at the term "pursuing". 'I genuinely am interested and, to be honest, I feel as though I have no choice.'

'Why?' frowned John.

'I cannot possibly stay away from you any longer, Doctor Watson, I am afraid you are too enthralling.'

Sherlock locked his fingers together in front of him, completely unaware of the impact his words had upon John. John sat in silent shock, staring at Sherlock's distracted eyes that flicked over the floor in thought. The doctor felt as though all these months of suppression, denial, secrecy and shame had been revoked in the past half hour. Sherlock had just committed himself to him without even really realising it – clearly still a "feelings" novice – but he did, nonetheless. John's heart felt so swollen with affection it almost hurt.

'I – so, what do we do now?' he asked, clearing his throat.

'Dinner?' suggested Sherlock.

'Shall I order Chinese?'

'You read my mind, I don't much feel like going out.'

'It seems I'm getting better,' grinned John, getting out of the armchair, and Sherlock smirked after his retreating back.

After John had left the room, the detective sighed and sat back in the chair, closing his eyes and sinking once more into the very dungeons of his Mind Palace. New passages, unfamiliar routes had been revealed and he longed to explore them. John. John now had his own chambers in the Palace, it seemed, for the longer Sherlock probed the more certain he became that life without the doctor had become impossible. And then there were dark, frightening corners of physical attachment that Sherlock was not entirely sure he desired to illuminate – perhaps best left for another time, later at night.

'I'm flattered,' called John from the kitchen. 'You choose me of all people.'

'You're not like all people,' Sherlock noted, his eyes still closed.

John smiled to himself and dialled the number for the Chinese.

The pair ate in unusual silence, yet it was far from uncomfortable. In fact it seemed, at least to John, that all the walls had been felled and he could finally breathe in peace. He couldn't help his gaze flicking more often than not to Sherlock's face, and his smile could barely be suppressed. Sherlock kept his eyes on his noodles though John's stare did not go unnoticed.

'So, how did the case go?' John asked, more to have something to say than out of real interest.

'Justin Darling's lover,' answered Sherlock. 'Terribly dull conclusion, you didn't miss out on much. I was too busy occupied by thoughts of my own anyway.'

'And – why didn't you let me help, again?'

'I told you, you were distracting me. Though I will admit, distancing myself from you didn't exactly work as planned.'

John shot him an inquiring look.

'Oh, you know how it goes,' said Sherlock wearily.

'Yeah, right, I was invading your "Mind Palace", I expect.'

Sherlock smirked at John's exasperation.

'This is option number two,' Sherlock continued. 'I'm going to try not to think about it.'

'That's a first.'

'So, what do we do?' asked Sherlock, putting down his chopsticks to look expectantly up at the doctor. 'You're an expert on relationships –'

'Oh, I certainly wouldn't say that,' laughed John awkwardly. 'An expert compared to you, perhaps, though that's not exactly difficult.'

Sherlock inclined his head before going on.

'What do people do in situations such as ours?'

'Well, I – er – to be honest, I don't think I've ever been in a situation like this,' frowned John.

'Come on, John, you've been with women before,' Sherlock dismissed.

'Yes, _women_. And – they're not like you, like this, I mean.'

'Indeed.'

'Just – go with it,' suggested John, somewhat flatly. 'Do whatever feels natural, or normal.'

Without seeming to hesitate, Sherlock extended his arm to rest his hand over John's that lay on the table. John was caught off-guard and stared at Sherlock's hand on his. The warmth felt incredibly soothing and though the act was rushed and unusual, John told Sherlock it was alright by turning his hand to entwine their fingers together. He smoothed his thumb over the detective's knuckle, back and forth, to comfort his clearly conflicted mind; Sherlock's eyes were boring into their hands as though trying to read the meaning in them, but soon he relaxed and exhaled.

'No rush,' John assured him gently. 'I'll be here to help you.'

Sherlock didn't answer, he just continued to watch the movement of John's thumb across his skin.

'Right, well, I'm going to bed,' said Sherlock suddenly, and his hand disappeared from the table.

'O-okay,' said John, completely nonplussed, watching the detective get to his feet. 'Do you – ah – do you want me to –?'

'To what?'

Their eyes met for a second and the brusque nature in Sherlock's fizzled John's true intention.

'Do you want me to clean up?' he asked dully.

'Oh, yes, thank you. Goodnight.'

'Night, Sherlock.'


	6. Chapter 6

'We've been through everyone,' said Sherlock. 'Everyone! It truly amazes me how utterly boring humanity can be, you know; it never ceases to really instil awe in my heart, you know that, John?'

'Yes,' said John wearily, rubbing his temples.

'Domestic robberies to missing cats to bloody manslaughter…'

Sherlock threw himself down onto the sofa with a groan of dismay, draping his arm dramatically over his brow.

'Don't you start shooting at the wall again,' John warned, and Sherlock threw a contemptuous look at the faded yellow smiley face on the wall above him.

'It's like it's mocking me,' he muttered petulantly.

'Listen.' John closed his laptop and clasped his hands together under his chin. 'Why don't we go out?'

'Out? Out where?'

'Oh, I don't know, we could get lunch or see a film, or – or something.'

John's tone gradually lowered in defeat under Sherlock's withering stare. The detective turned mulishly to face the wall.

'Fine,' said John stoutly, getting to his feet. 'Sit here and mope around, then, but I'm going out.'

'Where are you going?' Sherlock demanded, glancing over his shoulder to watch John shoulder into his coat.

'To get some air.'

'Wait.'

John looked around irately to see Sherlock sitting up straight with some unidentifiable hesitation in his eye.

'What's the matter?' Sherlock asked swiftly, narrowing his eyes slightly. 'Something's wrong, what have I done?'

The doctor sighed and folded his coat over his arm. In that moment, he cursed Sherlock's capacity for observation, it was as though he could read his mind – an invasion of privacy, it was. Had it not occurred to him that perhaps John didn't want to discuss what was on his mind? Of course it hadn't.

John sat down opposite Sherlock and rested his palms on his thighs.

'Please, John.' Sherlock pressed his forefingers to his temples. 'Can you begin talking sooner rather than later?'

John swallowed his retort and found Sherlock's sharp, impatient gaze.

'I thought – I just thought that, after the other day, we would, you know…' John trailed off lamely and Sherlock eyed him with curious disdain.

'We would what?' he said bluntly.

'I don't know! Be – together.'

Sherlock frowned.

'I'm with you right now,' he noted, pointing out the obvious.

'No, that's –' John bit back a sigh of exasperation. 'That's not what I meant.'

'What is it that you want from me, John?'

John looked up, helplessly forlorn, and just shook his head wordlessly: the sight of a defeated man. Seeing him thusly shot that all-too-familiar pain of regret through Sherlock. He had hurt John and not realised it.

'I just want you,' John said to the floor. 'That's all.'

He raised his hand suddenly and his fingertips whispered down the detective's face, from his temple, over those prominent cheekbones he had so longed to touch, to his jawline. Sherlock's eyelids fluttered closed at the feel of the doctor's caress; he gave over his senses to that single act alone and indulged in its strange electricity for what seemed like an eternity - or perhaps it was only fleeting, it was hard to tell.

When John lowered his hand, Sherlock opened his eyes to find his smiling face.

'Your pupils are dilated,' the doctor noted softly.

Sherlock's jaw clenched and he averted his gaze to the wall.

'I've always been able to keep myself distant,' he muttered. 'To divorce myself from – _feelings_, but you see! My body is betraying me.'

'Come off it,' said John exasperatedly. 'You don't have to keep this up.'

'Yes, I do,' Sherlock defended. 'It keeps my mind clear from unnecessary and irritating distractions.'

There was a poignant pause in which Sherlock's words bit at John's affections.

'That's what I am, is it?' asked John. '"Unnecessary and irritating"?'

'That's not what I meant,' snapped the detective impatiently.

'Well, what did you mean?'

'I wasn't referring to _you_ specifically, but emotions in general. Do keep up, John.'

'Until now I was lead to believe the two were interchangeable.'

John was wounded by Sherlock's indifferent sniping and felt belittled in himself. Who had he been kidding? He had deluded himself into thinking that suddenly the two of them would be happy together and remain that way; of course, Sherlock Holmes could never make any such commitment so simple. He still did not know how to behave around people, and thus continued to degrade and hurt John wherever possible whether intentionally or not.

'You're deluded into thinking that all people are trouble,' John pointed out angrily. 'I am not going to hurt you, Sherlock, ever.'

'I'm not afraid of being hurt,' muttered Sherlock.

'Then what are you afraid of?'

'I – I don't know, John!'

His shoulders were hunched in on themselves as though he attempted to hide in them.

'You're behaving like a child,' John said edgily, but his gaze softened. 'Do you want to be with me?'

When Sherlock didn't reply, John stood and shook on his coat again.

'I'll be back soon,' he said tonelessly, though the despair was not concealed from the detective.

As soon as he heard the front door close, Sherlock fell back onto the sofa with a deep breath, feeling his face burn as though from dry ice. Thoughts and possibilities that had consumed him the previous night washed over him like a tidal wave: moonlit bed, careful caresses, stolen kisses, waking to coffee and comfort… It was an unfamiliar beauty he was so unaccustomed to and yet he felt stir his inner primal man. His human nature wanted this, and had always wanted this, despite the resolute strength of his conscious decisions. Now that he had given in, his longing for something stable was able to be recognised and fulfilled; because that was what John was – a rock, an anchor, a safety net. _Yes, John_, was what he should have said. _Yes, I want so desperately to be with you that I am already there_. But no. That was the best thing about John: his generosity, his capacity for patience and loyalty where Sherlock had his failings. John would wait, Sherlock just had to grit his teeth and bite the bullet. What a funny thing to be afraid of.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock Holmes was a master of spontaneity. He was naturally an impulsive man, willing to comply to every whim of his mind's desire (however fleeting). John was out and alone with his minimal albeit potent thoughts and so Sherlock was left to conjure an appropriate solution to this damned domestic argument of fifteen minutes previous. How petty this had all become! And how infuriating it was to care so much. _Damn these emotions, damn this preoccupation!_ But what could be done? What did people do in situations such as these?

'Boys?'

A call came from downstairs as the perfect person entered the building. A godsend, truly.

'Mrs Hudson!' Sherlock cried, leaping to his feet to lean out of the doorway down the stairs to her.

'Oh, Sherlock, could you take these for me?' she asked wearily, holding up the two shopping bags in her arms. 'The tins are dreadfully heavy, I'm afraid I misjudged the height of these stairs and all.'

'Mrs Hudson, I require your assistance, if you would be so kind,' Sherlock proposed, taking the stairs two at a time to lift the bags for her.

'Me?' she asked in surprise. 'Oh, well, I don't know what I could possibly do for you.'

'John and I –'

'Now, let me guess.' She gave him a half-shrewd half-amused look as they climbed the stairs together. 'You've had another row, haven't you? Oh, I knew it, you two are always at each other's throats, it's enough to drive anyone up the wall if you ask me.'

Sherlock ignored the reference to being at John's throat.

'But, the point is, I need to make John feel better,' he pressed insistently.

He left the bags on the bench without another thought and began pacing his usual route in the living room, running possible scenarios over in his mind: a new case? Impossible, there were none. Going out? Sherlock could hardly see the use of it. Hugging him? Oh, what a lurid suggestion! All these and more had whirred through his wired brain before Mrs Hudson had even made it to begin unloading the shopping bags.

'I won't ask what it is you two argued about,' she assured him, as though he was afraid she would pry. 'It's not my business. But if you're that worried about him, Sherlock, why don't you do something nice for him once in a while? I mean, he's a _lovely_ man and where he finds the patience for you I'll never know…'

'Yes, but what?' Sherlock muttered, filtering out the unimportant margins of her conversation.

'Well, I noticed that you two were dreadfully low on food and though I am _not_ your housekeeper I thought I'd pick up a few things just to keep you fed.' She threw Sherlock a concerned and yet fond look. 'You need to look after yourself.'

'Where are you going with this?'

'Why don't you make John dinner?' suggested Mrs Hudson, choosing to ignore the beaker of what looked horribly like congealed blood in the fridge door and hedging eggs around to hide it. 'Cook him something special.'

She smiled slightly at the thought of something so sweet under her very own roof. Sherlock, in the meantime, had stopped dead in his tracks to stare at her. Dinner, yes, what an apt suggestion: it would be an excellent display of concern and affection as well as a gesture of apology for his insensitivity before. He, of course, was not getting any better at conveying his feelings verbally and so explaining through actions was the only choice left to him.

'There's a problem,' Sherlock noted swiftly. 'I don't cook.'

'Oh, it's simple,' dismissed Mrs Hudson, with a wave of her hand. 'I'll show you how to make a nice risotto…'

Sherlock only pretended to pay attention to her instructions for five minutes before she ended up prepping the meal herself while the detective slunk around the living room, picking up his violin only to put it down again, all the while focussing on the image of John's melancholy. The picture made his very heart ache with regret so much so that the wait for reconciliation was almost torturous.

When his phone buzzed, Sherlock dived for it.

_Staying at Janine's, don't wait up. JW_

Sherlock mouthed the word "Janine" as he read it, dread flooding his heart. _No_, he told himself. _Dissipate this feeling to focus on the task at hand_. He smoothed his brow.

_No you're not. I need you here it's an emergency. SH_

_What's happened? JW_

_Come. Now. SH _

Sherlock put the phone down with a satisfied smirk: he knew John's weak spot. Feeling almost feverishly anxious, the detective flew around the room shoving the mess from the kitchen table into the living room behind the sofa, moving his microscope and Erlenmeyer flasks to his bedroom, tipping dirty glasses into the sink all the while ignoring Mrs Hudson's cries of, 'I'm not cleaning this up, you know!'

In twenty minutes, the table was laid, Sherlock was in his button-up purple shirt, there was wine and he was calm.

Mrs Hudson sidled up with a knowing look in her eye to place a lit candle in the middle of the table. Sherlock didn't even bother to reproach her. His eyes were closed and his hands were together at his lips as though in prayer when in reality he was waiting for the familiar sound of the front door opening. When it came, Mrs Hudson tactfully disappeared with a girlish giggle.

'Sherlock?' called John from the front door.

_Thud thud thud_. John's familiar gait, recognisable in any instance as the signature of his stride, came increasingly louder as he climbed the stairs.

'Sher – what is going on.'

His surprise made it sound like a statement of shock as opposed to a question of the circumstance. Sherlock opened his eyes to see John, face flushed from his obvious hurry, concern written all over his face, standing still in his coat in the doorway. His expression made it seem as though he believed the detective to be in some way mentally unbalanced.

'I wanted to apologise, John,' said Sherlock. 'For my – lack of tact.'

His displeasure at admitting fault in himself was clear in his tone. To John, this did not come as unexpected.

'You cooked dinner?' he asked, still in that blunt way. 'You – Sherlock Holmes – _cooked_?'

'More or less,' Sherlock hedged.

John shook his coat off as he approached the table cautiously, peering into the dish at the place opposite Sherlock's to judge the risotto that lay steaming inside. He sniffed warily.

'It – ah – it looks good,' John said, sounding surprised himself.

'Please,' offered Sherlock, with a gesture for John to sit down.

The doctor obeyed, folding his coat of the back of his chair before sitting opposite. He was frowning slightly at the candle between them, his lips parted.

'You were right,' said John firmly. 'This is an emergency.'

'Indeed. Wine?'

'Ah – al-alright, yes, thank you.'

Sherlock poured them both a measure but while John took a sip, his own remained untouched. After John put down his glass, there was a pregnant pause.

'What is all this about?' John asked, casting a bemused eye over the tabletop.

'I told you,' said Sherlock evenly. 'I wanted to apologise for earlier and this was the best way I could think of.'

'It's very – conventional.'

Through John's surprise, Sherlock heard that he was impressed. He could see that now familiar tenderness soften the doctor's eyes as they laboriously took in all features of Sherlock's preparation. John was dressed plainly, in the shirt he had been wearing all day and trousers with the stained turn-ups showing that he wasn't really interested in the woman, Janine, whose house he was going to sleep at. His readiness to return to Baker Street proved he was not angry with Sherlock, not really; of course he was upset but not enough to mar the depth of their relationship. He had only left to prove a point. His hesitancy to begin eating conveyed his reluctance to interrupt the conversation he so desired to have, though Sherlock knew he hadn't had any food since breakfast, and his face gave away the extent of his affections completely. But for Sherlock, it wasn't enough to observe – he wanted to _feel_ it, he hungered to examine John's fondness with his hands, with his lips, with his skin.

'Thank you for doing all this,' John acknowledged quietly. 'It's really – I'm flattered.'

'Do you forgive me?'

John couldn't help but melt at Sherlock's inability to conceal his desperate attachment; though the detective's face was a mask of carefully honed neutrality, his shaky words betrayed him.

'Fine,' John gave. 'This time. But – maybe for future reference you could try to be a little more… Oh, never mind.'

John wasn't about to ask Sherlock to change, not when his flaws were so impossibly perfect. He conceded to take a forkful of risotto which surprised him.

'This is excellent!' he said, having another.

'I lied,' Sherlock admitted, taking an obligatory bite himself. 'Mrs Hudson helped.'

'I should have known. I'm glad you called me back, you know; I didn't particularly want to go to Janine's.'

'Oh, I know,' Sherlock assured him, unfazed.

'Of course,' muttered John.

When their meal was done and the wine drunk, Sherlock got to his feet.

'I'm going to bed,' he stated.

'Do you –' John hesitated. 'Do you want me to –?'

The look Sherlock gave him, that characteristically searching look, quelled the rest of John's sentence. Again, his inquiry dissolved into a bashful silence.

'Yes, John,' said Sherlock. 'I want you to come to bed with me.'


	8. Chapter 8

The pair stood in Sherlock's bedroom, Sherlock on one side of the bed, John on the other, in silence. The expectancy was there – the bed was between them waiting with the sheets rumpled almost impatiently, eagerly anticipating their bodies to muss them up further. Sherlock could hear the bed shouting at him to get in; it surprised him then how he could even read the intentions of inanimate objects. John, too, could feel the sexual tension igniting the space between them but something stopped him. He wasn't quite sure what it was, all he knew was that warning signals were raring in his brain that this seemed so – so _wrong_; not wrong in the sense that he didn't want to, but wrong in that it seemed inappropriate. It was not in his nature to be abrupt or pushy or dominant, that was Sherlock's default role in their relationship. And yet Sherlock here was a virgin in all things even close to the subject of physical affection so John felt the pressure of being the first to act. It was just – he didn't know how.

Sherlock's eyes were boring into his, attempting to – and probably succeeding in – fathoming the anxieties behind John's quivering gaze. John looked back with an almost apologetic expression as he attempted to convey what he couldn't quite bring himself to say. That was the beauty in Sherlock: words mattered little when it came to understanding. Sherlock did understand completely and yet he couldn't help feeling slightly resentful for it. After so long of struggling with these feelings and affections towards John, months of suppression and close to psychological torture, surely he now deserved something in return? But no, John did not mean his inaction to express such things. He was just – English. Mild and passive and so very tentative, caught between two kinds of horrors: on the one hand, the regret of not indulging in this human desire. On the other hand, the madness of being the first to move.

Sherlock's usually wired mind felt incredibly clear as he moved around the bed to stand in front of his companion. A head shorter, John looked up at Sherlock's characteristic mask of impartiality but something had shifted behind those eyes that now smouldered awfully tenderly (although the excitable fire that most often accompanied the discovery of a new case was visible as well).

'Sherlock, are you –?'

'More sure than I have ever been in my life,' the detective murmured, and the finality in his tone spoke no hint of doubt.

And without another thought, John raised his hand to Sherlock's face. He did not touch his skin but held his hand a mere centimetre from the detective's sculpted cheek. Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed deeply, though his limbs remained unmoved. Now was the time to switch places: mind to body. This, right here, was the test of endurance, the test of character, the test to tell what he was really capable of.

John dropped his gaze to Sherlock's mouth and, slowly, he moved his hand down his face, still just without touching him. An electric current sparked through the detective as John's thumb whispered over his lips, first lightly, then deeply as he massaged the contours, the creases, the bow of his lips. Sherlock parted his mouth slightly, sighing a confession of lust.

And then the phone rang. Sherlock opened his eyes and John's hand froze as though he had been caught doing something improper. His mouth opened to explain but empty words caught in his throat. Sherlock's eyes flashed down to his breast pocket through which the light of his ringing mobile was glowing before looking pointedly back at John. The doctor exhaled irritably and slipped out the phone to answer.

'Hello? Yes, it's me. What? Which one?' John shot Sherlock of a look of alarm. 'Ah – right, but I thought that was all cleared up days ago? Sherlock said – yes, yes, of course. Busy? Ah, well, actually as a matter of fact we're – right, yep, okay we'll be there in twenty.'

'What's wrong?' asked Sherlock sharply as John hung up the phone.

'Lestrade says the woman who killed what's-his-name –'

'Justin Darling's lover, Kitty Stapleton. Where is she?'

'They don't know. Disappeared, apparently.'

Sherlock's face morphed rapidly from frustration to incredulity and then to barely disguised delight.

'Coming?' he asked brightly, sidestepping John to stride out of the room.

'Y-yes, of course,' John replied, following feeling somewhat nonplussed.

For some reason, Sherlock's sudden seize of this new development in crime hurt John deep to the pit of his stomach.

'I bet those idiots at Scotland Yard let her get away, I've been waiting for this to happen,' Sherlock said, walking with a slight bounce to his step, but John wasn't really listening.

He watched Sherlock shake on his trench coat and loop his scarf around his neck with a mixture of resentment and shame: of course this whole "affection" thing was just another distraction from Sherlock's hyper thoughts. Now that there was some mystery to be solved, what did John really matter? Clearly, naught. Here Sherlock was vapid, in his element, excited and raring to prove his infallibility once again – something he could not do in a relationship with John as he was _very_ fallible there. Now it was as though their encounter in the bedroom may as well have not happened at all.

'Actually, I might stay here,' John spoke up, and Sherlock stopped to stare at him.

'Don't undermine yourself, John,' Sherlock sighed impatiently. 'I told you why I didn't want you on cases with me before, don't you listen? Things have changed now. Everything's – in order.'

'Yes, but I don't know.' John cast around for an excuse. 'The flat's a mess, I really should –'

'Save the excuse,' Sherlock dismissed. 'I shouldn't be long.'

When the front door closed behind the detective, a heavy silence descended on the flat. John fell back into the armchair with a deep sigh and massaged his temples, attempting to smooth out the knotted rejection balled up in there. Fifteen minutes of poignant solitude passed until he decided to walk just to have something to do. He pulled on his jacket, all the while attempting to block out the feeling of touching Sherlock's parted lips, and hurried downstairs and onto Baker Street beyond.

The bustling grey street with cars honking and lights flashing were not enough to drown out a soft female voice that drifted to John's ears and made him turn.

'You must be Doctor Watson.'

John stopped and stared around, looking for the source of the voice. The buzz of an automatic window drew his eyes to the passenger side of a parked black car, and a young woman's face appeared there, smiling an alluring smile. Her face was very pretty and John immediately frowned.

'Did Mycroft send you?' he asked shrewdly, taking a step closer to the car.

'I suggest you get in.'

The woman elected to ignore his question and the command had an edge to it that immediately put John on his guard.

'Who are you?'

'All in due time,' she said lightly, and the shiny barrel of a revolver appeared glinting at her side. 'Join us for a ride now, Doctor, if you please.'

Anxiety thrilled up John's spine and yet he remained composed. Years of military training had given him nerves to reckon with and after the woman's eyebrow raised inquiringly, he took a few steps to the car, looked up and down the street in the vain hope of seeing Sherlock, and got into the back seat.


	9. Chapter 9

Sorry for the belated update, I've been ridiculously preoccupied but I'm gonna try and keep it a bit more regular from now on. Cheers for waiting!

* * *

_Number Withheld_.

'Hello?'

'_You listen closely now, Mister Holmes._'

'Who is this?' Sherlock asked sharply.

'_Your reputation for infallibility proves accurate it seems, much to the dismay of those who commit the crimes. Life would be much easier if you were not around._'

'Who am I talking to?'

'_You should know. I'm going to make you a wager: tell the police Stapleton didn't do it and your little friend goes free unharmed. If not, well, you might want to come and get him_.'

A horrible reality dawned upon Sherlock as he held the phone an inch from his ear. John, in danger, his life perhaps at risk due to his own rash decision to march off to Scotland Yard in pursuit of information on Kitty Stapleton when she had been a step ahead of him, waiting to give Sherlock the only incentive in the world to enter her vicinity: the safety of John Watson. The babble of talk inside Lestrade's office was drowned by the throbbing beat of Sherlock's heart in his ears.

'Where?' he asked, his mouth suddenly dry.

'_Oh, I'm sure you can figure that out for yourself – if you haven't already, that is_.'

The call was disconnected. Sherlock felt as though his soul had slipped, cold white jelly, to the pit of his stomach. His heart leapt into overdrive as he dropped the phone back into his coat pocket and strode out of the room.

'Sherlock, where are you going?' Lestrade called after him, rising from his chair.

'Not now, Inspector,' he told him absently, side-stepping a bemused Donovan without seeming to notice.

Sherlock's mind was whirring and dread churned his insides though his exterior remained faithful to that carefully honed mask of neutrality he had relied upon for so long. Despite this fear, a touch of a smirk turned up the corner of his lips at Ms Stapleton's unexpected intuition: she knew that the only way to get to Sherlock Holmes – and _really_ get to him – was through John. If John was in danger, she was full aware that the detective would go to all lengths to rescue him.

The street appeared as a grey blur of motion, all irrelevant to the detective who stepped up to the curb to hail a taxi. He got in and said the address without thinking about it; his mind was occupied by one thing alone – John. John could not be in danger, not now. Justin Darling's lover, Kitty Stapleton, had been arrested by Lestrade only yesterday. The voice on the end of the phone call Sherlock did not recognise, but he knew the intention perfectly: Moriarty was behind this, without a doubt, stepping in to thwart the detective purely because he could. Sherlock caught himself by surprise in realising the irrelevance of the case to him now as all his priority was centred around John's safety. John, of course, was unaware of the situation he was in as he had not been involved in the case – Sherlock had made sure of that – so it was up to the detective alone to right this. Their location was, of course, made obvious to Sherlock and though he attempted to force the horror of guilt from his shoulders it proved to be futile. How did Kitty get John? Well, she was already there watching the flat, waiting for Sherlock to get the call that she had eluded Lestrade and continue to travel to Scotland Yard to pursue the case; John, then, would have been restless from their previous encounter in the bedroom as well as disgruntled at the least by Sherlock's leaving and so would have left the flat soon after perhaps for a quiet drink or to pay Molly a visit. All Kitty would have to do was choose the right style of vehicle: sleek and black – in the character of whom? Mycroft. The perfect disguise. How eloquent indeed, though the woman could not take all of the credit as Moriarty no doubt would have given her necessary tips; though, Sherlock was slightly disappointed that he had gone for John again. After all, the consulting criminal was now repeating himself. How dull the past week must have been for him.

To keep up the charade of Mycroft's pursuit, Kitty Stapleton would travel to one place only: the warehouse in which John and Mycroft had first met. Why? It was the only one Moriarty knew of to be familiar to John – and, of course, he would not want to make it too difficult when Sherlock was his primary target.

Sherlock continued unravelling each train of thought, mapping out the interiors of his muddled Mind Palace as shops and buses flicked past the taxi window, attempting yet failing to ignore the intense guilt twisting his heartstrings. Only when John's safety was at stake did Sherlock fully understand the capacity of this thing called _love_, and how desperately he needed John at his side. He knew, then and there, that he was prepared to risk everything for John's safety because a life without John was impossible, there was no doubt about it. Before he had met the doctor, Sherlock was unaware such a desperate hunger could even exist in relation to him, but John had proved him wrong. And how apt that a petty feud between two brothers could bring the life of the most significant being on earth into jeopardy. Sherlock felt incredibly restless and whipped out his phone to have something to occupy his twitching hands. He opened John's contact.

_I am coming for you. SH_

How petty, how pointless, how desperate, but the detective did not care. He tapped the phone against his lower lip as he worked to smooth the creases in his thoughts. Cool and collected, quick and precise, they were the motifs to achieve the goal of John's wellbeing.

When the taxi pulled up the front of the warehouse, Sherlock paid and stepped out without a word. The cool metal of the gun against his hip assured a form of provocation but weaponry always seemed so crude to the detective; he preferred riddles be solved, not revealed by force, but if it came to it he would cast aside his pride and preference because in the face of danger, John came first. Sherlock had never been more certain of anything in his life.


	10. Chapter 10

Footsteps. The signature of Sherlock's stride scrawled itself in echoes down the warehouse walls and blotted relief in John's heart. His muscles relaxed and he breathed. He was here. He had come. John then felt foolish for feeling the extent of such relief – of course Sherlock would come, he had known it all along; but even still, feeling his presence was akin to safety itself.

The detective appeared out of the darkness, clad as always in his trench coat and scarf, hands in his pockets, and stopped twenty metres away. A wild tenacity glinted behind Sherlock's eyes that was tinted by a sinister edge. Kitty Stapleton smiled a cool smile that the detective saw right through: she was frightened. She had gotten herself tangled into an intricate personal web that she had not anticipated to be so sensitive; true, she had hit Sherlock to the core, and that was what unnerved her. The steely threat pierced her from the detective's glacial stare and she suddenly felt vulnerable. His look was penetrating and she wondered how much of her he could read. Even still, her stance at John's side did not waver.

Sherlock's eyes flicked to John's face and the flash of a glance told him all he needed to know. John was full of anxiety, fear and frustration, but all his attention was on the man before him. Not an inch of concentration was given to the gun that had appeared at his temple – he was worried for Sherlock and Sherlock alone. John was well aware how tense his partner was and how rash that could make him become.

'Evening,' said Sherlock, his deep voice revealing no emotion.

'I'm glad you could make it,' Kitty replied in her alluring tone. 'You were quicker than I anticipated but, well, I have been told not to underestimate you.'

'Good. Let us skip the mindless conversation, please, I am rather in a hurry.'

'Oh, but why?' Kitty pouted. 'It's such a pleasure to finally see you in the flesh, I don't want to waste it.'

'Is he here, or not?' Sherlock inquired, and the edge in the question told her he was not interested in idle conversational games.

'Who?'

'Don't play stupid.'

'I'm afraid he couldn't make it,' she snapped. 'Moriarty is a busy man, of course.'

'And what interest has he in you?' Sherlock eyed her with disdain and John couldn't help the smirk that twitched up his lip. 'Murdering a medium-profile businessman isn't exactly remarkable.'

'Well, between you and I, I think he likes me,' she grinned.

Sherlock snorted and began walking forward, stopping ten metres away.

'You're utterly delusional,' he told her bitterly, his lip curling in disgust.

And then Sherlock froze as an all-too-familiar voice rang out in response to his remark.

'But she is quite a looker, don't you think?'

Jim Moriarty twirled on his heel into the light from behind a shipping crate, hands in his pockets, with a smug smile on his face as though he was a long-awaited celebrity appeasing a gaggle of fans.

'Surprise!' he sang into the shocked silence. 'I told you at our last meeting that I was considering a live-in like your doctor here, but now I see that it's all just a big waste of time.' Moriarty stopped and surveyed Sherlock with a look of deepest disappointment, like a father catching his son doing something unlawful. 'Look at you, Sherlock, so _involved_. And here you had me thinking we were something alike.'

'Sorry to disappoint you,' Sherlock said evenly, his eyes fixed on Moriarty's big doleful ones.

'Getting rid of John, here.' Moriarty continued to stroll idly around where John was tied to the chair, looking him up and down with an attempt at mild interest. 'I would be doing you a favour, Sherlock. He's buried further into your head than I have! And how boring are human relationships, really? It's _changed_ you.'

John looked from Moriarty to Sherlock and back again and realised that between them, all else was irrelevant. The room didn't matter, he didn't matter, Kitty didn't matter. They may as well have been standing in an empty white room for all they cared about was the other. The tension that bounced between the consulting criminal and detective was all but tangible; everything else around them seemed to shrink. The criminal extracted a shiny revolver from his waistcoat and twirled it nonchalantly in his fingers.

'I need you,' Moriarty said, in an almost loving tone. 'I need you to need me, because we're _perfect _for each other. And that's why I have to kill him.'

'No,' Sherlock commanded, and his voice suddenly rang out, echoing around the room.

He took a step forward and stood tall, dominant and powerful. Moriarty just shook his head in despair.

'No, no, no,' he groaned. 'Look at how _desperate_ you are! I'm doing you a favour, Sherlock, _us_ a favour!'

'Then why get Stapleton involved?' Sherlock asked swiftly. 'If not to be your partner.'

Moriarty tapped the gun against his bottom lip, frowning in thought.

'Good point,' he allowed, and before anyone could even blink, he raised the gun and shot the woman in the chest.

The ear-splitting gunshot echoed repeatedly around the room as Kitty fell back in a heap on the cold cement floor, her own gun clattering from her limp hand. John had yelled aloud in response and Sherlock's body froze stiff. Moriarty merely lowered his gun and tapped it against his leg as though for something to do.

'Just a pawn,' he murmured absently. 'A pretty one, though, am I right?'

A new level of desperation had lowered upon Sherlock. One death would precede another, and telling him that was the reason Kitty was now quietly bleeding on the floor.

'This is between us, as you said,' Sherlock enunciated clearly. 'John isn't involved, let him go and we can continue this – conversation.'

'But he's such a big _part_ of it, you know? He's so _pivotal_, he's the reason you've become so boring! You don't care about me anymore.'

Moriarty pouted like a child.

'Let him go,' said Sherlock. 'You want me dead, let John go.'

'I never said I wanted you _dead_, no you're no fun when you're not around.' Moriarty rolled his eyes theatrically as though this point was the most obvious thing in the world. 'I said I wanted to _burn you_. Burn the –'

'The heart out of me,' Sherlock murmured, a look of dawning on his face. 'Of course.'

'Now we're all on the same page.'

'Take me,' Sherlock demanded, without a hint of hesitation. 'Let him leave, take me instead.'

'Sherlock,' John spoke up sharply. 'Sher- stop, stop it.'

'Isn't this sweet,' Moriarty droned in a morbidly amused way.

'I'm not leaving here without you,' John told the detective stubbornly.

'Oh, don't be ridiculous, John,' Sherlock dismissed.

'Not a chance.' John shook his head.

'John, I need you,' Sherlock said lowly. 'So, if you even think about getting yourself killed I'm afraid I will never forgive you.'

'I won't if you won't,' hissed John.

'Hello?' Moriarty cooed. 'I am still here, you know.'

'I know,' snapped both Sherlock and John, which only made Moriarty grin wider.

'Okay, okay,' Moriarty insisted, raising his hands in submission. 'Here, I'll play nice and give you lovebirds a moment to hug or hold hands or whatever it is you do.'

He flicked out a knife and approached John. Sherlock took another step forward but Moriarty only cut John's bonds where he was tied to the chair.

'Play nice? You just shot that woman!' John protested in shock, massaging his wrists.

'Yeah, well she could have shot me if she really wanted,' Moriarty shrugged.

'A moment, please?' Sherlock insisted sharply.

Moriarty clicked his heels together, set his face and saluted before turning his back on them and strolling back towards the shipping container, twirling the revolver absently in his hand again as he did so.

As soon as Moriarty had turned away, John threw himself onto Sherlock, grabbing him fiercely around the middle and clutching him as though his life depended on it. Sherlock stood stock still for a fraction of a second before placing his arms in a protective cage around his doctor and enclosing him into his chest. The detective closed his eyes and pressed his lips to John's hair, feeling a heavy gratitude weigh down upon his chest.

'I won't let him hurt you,' Sherlock promised, his quiet voice muffled by John's blond locks.

'You have a plan, don't you?'

Sherlock leaned back to smile crookedly at John's anxious face.

'Your life is infinitely more precious than mine,' he assured the doctor. 'Of course I do.'

'What do we do?' John whispered.

'I have a gun.'

'If you pull it on Moriarty he'll just shoot me.'

'You misunderstand. You heard what he said but you didn't listen; _think_, John.'

John stared at him for a moment before resting his head against Sherlock's shoulder just to relish the touch of his lips against such a miraculous construction of human life, just for a moment.

'Oh, Christ,' he breathed, shaking his head.

'Your life is more precious than mine,' Sherlock repeated, slipping his hand into the inside pocket of his coat, feeling for the cool metal.

'Don't. Don't do it, give me your word that you won't,' John begged.

The doctor pressed his eyelids shut, tightly until little white lights popped in the darkness. His chest felt as though it had fallen away into a hollow, empty chasm of the deepest fear he had ever felt; then, he looked up into the spectacle of home, the vision of humanity, the definition of purpose, the face of Sherlock Holmes.

'Kiss me,' he said lowly.

Sherlock obeyed without a second thought and pressed his lips against John's, and all their unspoken love was made painfully clear. John put his fear to him and when they broke apart, Sherlock set his face and stepped in front of his doctor, holding the man behind him.

'I'm no fun when I'm not around,' Sherlock called to Moriarty, and the criminal immediately turned around to face them.

Time seemed to stop as both John and Moriarty watched Sherlock press the revolver to his temple and place his forefinger on the trigger.

'So, what will it be?' the detective inquired.


End file.
